


Knock the Ice from Our Bones

by Coyote Grins (Inksinger), Inksinger



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Feels, Gen, everyone is happy, except for a few who feel too much to call it happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 14:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13836249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inksinger/pseuds/Coyote%20Grins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inksinger/pseuds/Inksinger
Summary: The Lich King is dead.Aren't you happy? Aren't you ecstatic?...Why are you crying?





	Knock the Ice from Our Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Triskaideka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triskaideka/gifts).



_“Tell them only that the Lich King is dead… and that Bolvar Fordragon died with him…”_

Tirion backs away, watching with a hideous twist of his gut as ice rises up and swallows what was once a great champion of the Light. What was once…

The glacier seals shut with an almighty crack; before Tirion’s ears have finished ringing, a voice rings out from within the frozen throne, as cold and menacing as the crackling sound of ice settling into place.

“Now, go!” the Lich King snarls, and once more Tirion must fight back a shudder, for the voice has become again like a tendril of shadow twisting through his ears. “Leave this place - and never return!”

Tirion blinks back the sting of snow flying against his face. He does not stop to address the battered champions who helped bring an end to Arthas’ tyranny, but the nearest of them catches his eye and nods once before turning to help one of her comrades limp towards the platform to teleport back down into the main hall.

Tirion follows them mechanically, though his legs feel like leaden weights and his body is stiff and cold.

He does not look at the body sprawled across the floor of the citadel’s peak.

Neither does he make any effort to keep pace with the battered heroes ahead of him once he's joined then downstairs. Soon he falls behind them by several yards, Ashbringer heavy in his frozen hand, eyes staring straight ahead and seeing nothing.

He finally comes back to himself at the sound of wild celebration erupting from the entrance hall, and for a split second he bristles at the sound. How dare they cheer? How dare they carry on so brazenly? If they knew what has been sacrificed, that they might…

…But, of course, they don't know. And they cannot - he did not swear any oaths at the Frozen Throne, but the burden of its terrible secret weighs across him all the same.

Bolvar… was right. The world does not deserve to live in fear any longer.

All the allied forces have crowded together in wild celebration by the time Tirion reaches the hall. The heroes who stood with him before the Frozen Throne are being herded through the throng by a group of healers, and many, many people reach out to touch battered armor and frost-dusted capes with a reverence that's starkly out of place among the raucous gathering.

There is only one other such point of stillness in the throng. Tirion shoves his way resolutely through the celebration towards the boy.

_His boy._

❂

They've only just put down the last of the Scourge attempting to retake the Citadel when Darion feels it - and nearly collapses with the sudden weightlessness.

All around him, soldiers of the Forsaken and the Ebon Blade alike stagger as he does, rocked by the same emptiness within their minds. Many lose the battle to keep their feet and fall to their knees; were it not for a nearby night elf noticing and catching Darion by the arm, he would be among them.

“Highlord.” The mortal’s voice is startled, as though she only now realizes who she's propping upright. Vaguely he recognizes her as one he's fought beside before, and recently.

Darion doesn't answer. He cannot find the words to say - there is so much _more_ now, so much burden lifted from his shoulders. Has he ever felt this nothingness before, this illumination and clarity…?

A nearby banshee shudders and drops to the ground, face buried behind clawed hands as she crumbles atop the rags and vaporous half-limbs that make up her lower half. Darion winces, scrambling to steel himself through the sudden euphoria--

The banshee _laughs._

And then another joins in - and from afar, a third - a fourth - another, another, _another,_ and instead of pain their bell-like laughter brings--

The entryway erupts in the cheers of the undead.

The night elf helping Darion tears her hands away to clap them over her own ears; many other mortals do the same, or else they startle and grip their weapons as if to calm themselves as their undead allies dissolve into a mess of cacophonous laughter and slap or punch each other in open, shameless jubilation.

 _They don't understand._ Darion is not so lost yet that he does not see King Varian begin to scowl suspiciously. He does not miss the way the rest of their mortal allies - Horde and Alliance and Silver Hand and all others, he's sure - begin to stiffen, begin to slide down or back or sideways in preparation to attack.

They do not understand what they are seeing. They do not understand the spectacle put on by the undead, somber and embittered as they have been all throughout this long campaign.

Darion staggers forward - numb fingers still grasping the hilt of his runeblade, albeit only just - and is raising his hand in an attempt to halt the mortal soldiers when a sudden stillness overtakes everyone, living and undead alike.

The ringing silence is softened by the sound of heavy footfall.

Darion turns, hand still half-raised as he watches the heroes who dared to stand before the Lich King limp slowly into view.

One of them - a draenei, limping foremost among the group and using his crystal hammer as a cane - lifts his head and blinks owlishly at the crowd before them, as though the cheering a moment before roused him from a deep and dreamless sleep. He comes to a clumsy, uncertain stop, and the others with him do as well… some more purposely than others.

A moment passes in utter stillness.

The draenei seems to have difficulty remembering how to grin - but grin he does, and he holds aloft one fist, clenched in victory and trembling with exhaustion. His voice is not at all so weak when he cries out to the assembled forces of the Light.

_“He is dead!”_

Another banshee _whoops,_ and the entire Citadel bursts into thunderous celebration as understanding descends upon the living.

Darion is vaguely aware of being jostled as bodies surge towards the heroes - elbows shove him aside and hands clap his back and shoulders in passing as living and undead - redeemed, released undead - charge onward to hail and congratulate those who felled the mighty Lich King. His hand comes up again and Darion watches himself remove the heavy, menacing helm from his head and drop it to the floor. He wants to see beyond the gleaming runes about the eye holes, he wants to breathe beyond the new-forged saronite and the blood and ichor sprayed about it - he is free, _he is free--_

And that is when strong arms wrap about him and drag him up against another's armored chest.

❂

Darion returns the embrace with a ragged gasp.


End file.
